


The City is At War

by orphan_account



Series: Instruments of War [1]
Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: F/M, M/M, No pun intended, alec and magnus together 4eva, angst angst angst ANGST!, as does maia, awkward prose, because I'm a sap, because that is more fun to play with, because this series needs some background, because who doesn't love angst?, cause that is how i roll, eventually, except for simon, featuring: clary with a backbone, happy endings all around, look at me babble, making friends through killing people, no happy endings for him, plot!fic, praetor lupus needs more credit, simon is a werewolf, sizzy is my otp, slow updates will be slow, so i'm giving them some, starting midway through CoB, total canon rewrite, vampires suck, world!building, yay for simon lewis!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1431094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clary Fray has always been able to see the magic.<br/>When she drags her best friend to Pandemonium with her to celebrate the summer holidays, she doesn't expect to have anything more than a fun night - one without, you know, zombies or an apocalypse getting in the way.<br/>Instead, she gets dragged into a Shadow World full of demons and Downworlders, due in part to her true heritage.<br/>And, unknowingly to her, Simon gets pulled into this new world of hers as well, through pain and teeth and blood.</p>
<p>As contention spreads at the coming signing of the Accords, Shadowhunters & Downworlders must put aside old rivalries and work together to defeat the coming mutual threat - Valentine Morgenstern is bringing the city to war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Siavahda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siavahda/gifts).



> So, this was inspired by the lovely Siavahda, author of the amazing City of Bones canon!rewrite, 'City of Shadows.'
> 
> That is not to say I am following her storyline or even her AU as a plot construct. This is completely my own idea.
> 
> It came to me when I was re-reading CoB the other day, and I realised - I really, truly, hated the characters - but only for CoB. They were absolutely fine for the rest of the TMI series.
> 
> So I decided to sit down and rewrite CoB, with just a few key changes. This first part of the Instruments of War series will be short, because I'm keeping most of the happenings in character and canon, with just a few key changes to dialogue/encounters/timeline.
> 
> While on the subject of timeline, please note - I am aware of the fact that TMI is set a few years ago, 2008, I think? So certain games and movies and songs and books would not be out at that time. I REALLY DO NOT CARE. If I want Simon to drool over the sexy, sexy graphics in The Last of Us, then DROOL he will.
> 
> Canon couples, because you should never mess with a good thing.
> 
> THIS IS A PLOT!FIC. THERE IS ALSO WORLD-BUILDING. Because except for some wishy-washy crap about the Clave and the smallest tid-bit ever about Praetor Lupus (WHICH SOUNDS AWESOME) there is literally no explanation of hierarchy or politics or traditions in the Shadow-World. It is like, literally, the Shadowhunters are judge, jury and executioner, OBEY ALL THE THINGS THEY SAY OR DIE, DOWNWORLD SCUM.
> 
> I think the Downworlders (and mundanes) need a bit more credit. 'Cause they are AWESOME.
> 
> And now I'm babbling, so I think I am going to go. The prologue is really short, so don't judge by length, but by quality, 'kay?

**THE CITY IS AT WAR**

**PROLOGUE**

 

_He who fights with monsters_   
_should look to it that he himself does not become a monster,_   
_for when you gaze long into an abyss,_   
_the abyss gazes also_   
_into you._

_-_ Friedrich Nietzsche

 

{['*']}

 

Clary had always been able to see the magic.

When she pointed, when she said " _Look!"_ Simon would always gaze over, his eyes squinting behind the lenses of his glasses.

There was never anything there - not anything that Simon could see, anyway - but he always believed Clary when she described the things she saw; the people with hair of glass and eyes of crystal, the men and women with moving and sparking tattoos.

When Clary's mum came to pick her up from a play-date, Clary would babble excitedly to her about the creatures she saw, and both she and Simon's mum would laugh, as if to say _kids_.

But Clary's mum always looked awfuly pale, and would drag her red-headed daughter out as fast as she could, promising to drop her by again soon.

 

[::]

 

Afterwards, always, when Simon saw Clary next, _she would not remember_.

She would see other magical things, would describe them in so much detail you couldn't _not_ believe her, but she never remembered seeing things like them before.

It was like something out of the comics Simon had started reading. She would go home and go to sleep, and her mind would be wiped blank as she slept.

It scared Simon, and he would've told his mum about it, if not for the look of absolute enchantment on Clary's face as she saw this magic for the 'first' time.

[::]

 

Simon stopped believing in the magic when he turned ten.

Clary would still babble about the things she saw - less frequently, but whether that was because she saw them less frequently or she didn't want people to think she was a freak, Simon wasn't sure.

He still knew that what she saw was true, but he didn't believe in the magic of it like he did before.

He had Clary, his best friend, with green eyes brighter than any emerald and red hair so vibrant it gave off the warmth of fire.

She was all the magic he needed.

She was the only thing he needed to believe in.

[::]

 

When Simon's dad got sick, Clary was there, holding his hand, sharing his tears, sharing her magic.

When _it_ finally happened - but not because of the cancer, a _heart attack_ \- Clary and her mother came rushing over.

And once again, Clary held him, hugged him, shared her magic.

[::]

 

_I watched my dad die_.

Simon tried hard, _so hard_ , to focus on his math worksheet. He was twelve now, he was the man of the house, he had to work and focus and _make his dad proud_.

I watched him fall to his knees.

Fall to the floor.

I watched him gasp for air and rip at his chest.

I watched him die, I heard him die.

_And then a part of me died_.

A small ball of paper hit the back of his head, not hard enough to hurt or injure, just enough to gain his attention.

He turned, and it was Clary, it was Clary and she was _smiling_ at him, trying to cheer him up, to work and share her magic -

\- for the first time in forever, in Simon's living memory and beyond, it wasn't enough.

Not Clary, and not her magic.

_Not enough, never enough_.

He turned his attention back to his paper.

[::]

 

Clary wasn't mad at the brush off.

She was understanding. She sat next to him on the bus even though she lived in the other direction, smiling at him.

She talked about the things she had seen lately, babbling to fill up Simon's darkening silence - the women made of blades of grass that swayed and danced in the evening breeze, the dark shadows that sliced through them like a Deathscythe, reducing them to fluttering shapes in the twilight dark.

It was the last time Simon ever heard her mention magic or the things she saw.

Until Pandemonium.

 

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter update came a lot sooner than I expected - but when I wrote it I was still high off the excitement of starting a new fic. Do not judge update speed by this first one, because I am notoriously slow. XD  
> While on the subject of not judging certain things by this first real chapter, let us discuss LENGTH. It was going to be a lot shorter - like, my average chapter length is about a thousand words - but then it turned into a monster. I will, of course, strive to achieve a length similar to this with every chapter, but make no promises I'm not sure I can keep.
> 
> Also, to allieviate confusion, the first part of this chapter (fastforward) is in THE FUTURE. I'm doing that thing where at the beginning of the 'part' (Ersatz, in this case), you reveal a small bit of how it is going to end and then type in a big circle, showing THIS IS HOW WE GOT HERE. So it is okay to be completely confused. All will be explained.
> 
> Eventually.
> 
> Hoping for some feedback for this mega chapter, and also to be posting again soon.
> 
> Jose, out.

** THE CITY IS AT WAR **

**PART I: ERSATZ**

**`------------------------------------------`**

_And suddenly, I become a part of your past. I'm becoming the part that don't last. I'm losing you and it's effortless._

\- Over My Head (Cable Car), The Fray

**[::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]  
** Chapter One

_> >fastforward>>   
_[one week after Pandemonium] __  
  


"Holy _crap_."

Clary had never been the kind of girl that swore, even with mild words like the one that had just left her lips, but she felt that it was kind of warranted in this situation. "Isabelle," she said. Her voice came out strangled. " _What the hell._ "

The Shadowhunter girl smiled at her, radiant and deadly. "It's gear," she said as she made a sweeping and grand motion with both arms, encompassing the entire spread of black that covered three of the infirmary beds. "If you're going to be staying here a while, we _really_ need to get you kitted out."

"That cannot be gear!" She protested incredulously. "What you're wearing is practically skin-tight, but the things you're showing me take up _three entire beds_."

Isabelle shrugged; a fluid motion. "Runes can work wonders," was her only answer.

Clary Fray had grown up with a mother that had blatantly refused to tell her fairytales. Where other children's parents told them of wizards and magic and their like, she'd really had no experience with that kind of thing until first grade, when she met Simon and asked him what ' _One Ring to Rule Them All_ ' meant. He had, of course, been scandalized by her cluelessness, but was more than happy to educate her in all kinds of pop-culture awesomeness. So strong had his influence been on her, she reacted in the only way he _could've_.

" _Magic_ ," she breathed, feeling an almost uncontrollable urge to reach out and _stroke_ the item of black clothing that was nearest to her.

"No," Isabelle said in an entirely too earnest voice. "Not magic, not exactly. Magic is made possible by an alliance with demons or their energies, and runes come from the _Angel_."

Clary frowned, and turned away from the precious magical clothing. She straightened up as she faced Isabelle, noticing as if for the first time, all over again, just how _striking_ the Shadowhunter girl was, like the only flame burning white-hot in a room full of candles - the runes on her arms seemed almost to glow like black pearl, as if they could sense they were in some way being talked of and were pleased about it.

"Are you saying magic is evil?" she asked disbelievingly.

Isabelle shook her head, and somehow managed to keep her silky curtain of hair neat and perfect. "Demon energy is just that - _energy_ , and something without sentience can't really be evil. Downworlders - you know what they are, right?" Isabelle ascertained before continuing, "Well, they're technically all, in some way, demonically allied. The Fae are part demon, as are warlocks, and vampires and werewolves are what they are due to a demonic infection transferred through blood or bite. They can all harness the demon energies that run rampant throughout our world, which is good, because it helps to get rid of the excess. And sometimes a mundie will find a way to 'bind' a demon and use its energies for their own purpose, but that always, and I mean _always_ , ends badly for them."

"So what you're trying to say for those of us who speak no other language than English is?"

"Magic isn't evil. Just on the opposite side of the spectrum from us Nephilim. That's why we have to hire warlocks from time to time."

"But then..." Clary frowned. "If runes aren't magic, how do they _work_?"

A shrug that clearly said 'I've-never-asked-because-I-don't-really-care' was her main answer. "Divine intervention?" Isabelle suggested. "I don't know, you'd have to ask Hodge. As long as they work, I'm happy."

A quiet voice whispered in the back of her head whispered that Simon would have insisted on finding Hodge straight away, and questioning him until he got the answer he _wanted_ , not the default Hodge had to offer, because tattoos that can heal and give night-vision and whatever the hell an _angelic-power_ rune does - yep, the Shadowhunters are totally in denial, because that is magic, and _how_.

Clary swallowed and pushed all thoughts of her best friend out of her mind.

_He's probably worried sick!_ An insidious hiss twined around her mind like a sickly sweet and poisonous vine. _You haven't even_ called _him yet_.

Isabelle had turned back to the gear - specifically, to the bed on the left - and was sorting it into what looked like piles of utter nonsense, muttering under her breath. "Strip," she suddenly commanded Clary with a quick, sharp glance at the red-head thrown over her shoulder. "Down to your underwear."

Clary, who had been contemplating escaping to make a phone call, blanched and resisted the urge to wrap both of her arms firmly around her chest.

Isabelle turned from the bed to face her with her hands on her hips, looking poised and graceful rather than petulant as she did so. A singular eyebrow rose into a delicate arch - Clary was convinced that it was a rite of Shadow World passage that all Nephilim learnt how to do that at birth - and the stare down began.

"Strip," Isabelle insisted once again. "Or I'll loan you a hand."

Isabelle, Clary thought as she hurriedly pulled her shirt up over her head, really needed lessons on how to play nice with other people.

Maybe her parents should have been more focused on that then on the eyebrow thing.

A curt nod of approval was given as she stood, shivering in the middle of the cold infirmary in nothing more than her plain cotton underwear and bra. "Simple," Isabelle mused. "Plain. That's good."

A blush as vivid a shade of red as her hair boiled under the skin of her cheeks. "Shut up and give me some clothes, Isabelle." She attempted to sound fierce, but it came out as a squeak that was part anger, mostly mortification. Isabelle, thankfully, didn't comment on it.

"This first," she held up a scrap of navy cloth that seemed far too small to Clary - yes, she was of tiny stature, but she still wasn't able to wear _dolls_ clothes. "And you can call me Izzy, if you want."

The entire thing was delivered in the same casual, the-devil-may-care-but-I-don't tone, but as Clary nervously unwrapped one arm from its protective position over her chest and reached out slowly for the piece of gear Isabelle - _Izzy -_ was holding out, something inside of her - call it woman's intuition - buzzed with discontent, and her eyes flicked momentarily up to meet the other girl's.

The dark coffee of Isabelle’s irises was filled with masked emotion, but Clary now knew fear when she saw it. She'd experienced it far too much in the past week not to recognize its acid taint.

Clary wondered, and not for the first time, just how secluded life in the Institute was. Had Isabelle ever really had any friends beyond her own brothers?

"Sure," she responded with as bright a smile as she could muster. "Izzy." Her eyes fell to the small but surprisingly heavy and thick piece of gear that she now held in her hand. "Er, how exactly does one put this on?"

Izzy gave out a faint laugh, but Clary couldn't tell if it was with her, at her, or because she herself had once gone through the same thing.

"That piece is only seen in the feminine gear, but I'm sure guys have their own version," Izzy said with a smirk. "It has a proper name, but most people call it a 'control.'"

Clary examined it more closely, lifting it up and taking note of straps that must go over arms and holes that appeared to be for legs, but no visible seams. "What is it for?"

"It goes on like a leotard," Isabelle informed her. "Legs through the holes, and pull it up."

Clary did as the other girl instructed her, paying half a mind to what was being said as an answer to her question.

"Women in the Amazonian tribes used to cut off their right breast so they could fight without hindrance," Izzy began in a conversational tone. "I mean, I know they're useful and all - feed your babies, dazzle your boyfriend -" Clary choked, and Isabelle paused to let her recover before continuing, "- But they _do_ get in the way of weapons, long range and short range."

She took a breath before continuing. "Back in the day - my _mother's_ day, even - Shadowhunting women were pretty much a ludicrous fever dream. They helped with keeping the Institutes around the world in order, and they trained medically, but they didn't _fight_. I'm pretty sure the first female Shadowhunter to get into a real position of power was a Charlotte Branwell, back in the eighteen-hundreds, and even after her the Clave was reluctant to allow women on the battle-field."

"So, in the nineteen-sixties - which I understand was a big period of change for mundies, too - a group of female Nephilim in Brazil cut off _both_ of their own breasts, and created their own little Enclave, though _they_ called it a Tribe, taking a page from the Amazons."

Clary paused in her adjustment of the control. She was now completely enclosed in it from mid-thigh to her shoulders, and while it wasn't _uncomfortable_ , per se, it _did_ feel _off_ ; wrong, somehow.

"You're wearing that wrong," Izzy sighed. "Give me a minute and I'll help you out."

Clary nodded eagerly. "Go on with the story," she said. "I don't mind waiting."

"The Clave back in Idris was _horrified_ at what they had done. Not the mutilation - they couldn't have cared less about _that_ \- but at the 'insubordination' and 'disobedience.' They quietly began to change the laws ever so slightly, so women would be allowed to hunt. But it's only been within the past quarter-century that we've been allowed to take _parabatai_ and have it _count_ under the eyes of the Clave."

Clary let out a low whistle. "Bigots," she muttered.

Izzy rolled her eyes. "I know, right?" she asked. "But that brings me back to the control. While the Tribe women had been content with self-mutilation, others weren't. So the Iron Sisters came up with a material that was interwoven with the thinnest threads of _adamas_ they could manage, and it was used to flatten the breasts. Over the years the design changed and grew, now going over the stomach and thighs, and becoming thermal. That's what you're wearing now."

As she said these last words, she leant over Clary and gave the control she was wearing a sharp tug, and a warm feeling of _rightness_ spread through her as the gear was adjusted.

Small and intricate runes she hadn't noticed before blazed up briefly with a blue light that made Clary think _oh Truth, Shadowhunters are freaking_ Alchemists _,_ before dying down and fading into the navy blue of the material.

"They are for temperature adjustment," Izzy said lightly, not commenting on Clary's astounded expression. "I'd teach you how to use them but you've barely dipped a toe into the kiddie-pool of Shadowhunting yet, no _thermos_ runes until I'm sure you won't cook yourself with your clothes as an oven."

Clary tried not to feel offended by that. It really was nothing more than the truth.

"Why were they blue?" she asked curiously. "When Jace drew that _iratze_ , it was white."

Isabelle made a non-committal noise. " _Iratzes_ are made for immediate use. They react the moment they're drawn out. Others are slower - they need some sort of a catalyst before they go off, and the blue light signifies that."

"Huh," Clary said. "What piece is next?"

The other girl turned to face the bed in the middle and selected a long-sleeved, scoop-necked top made of dark grey material and thin tights that were only a shade lighter. "The outer gear is black," she explained in response to the red-head's questioning look. "Pretty much everything underneath is in shades of grey."

"Hopefully not fifty shades of it," Clary muttered under her breath as she pulled both items on.

Isabelle tilted her head to the side and scrunched up her nose. "What?"

Clary suppressed a smile. "Nothing," she answered.

Isabelle frowned. "Mundanes," she complained, casting her eyes heavenward. "Do you _all_ speak in riddles? Or is that just a particular talent of yours?"

She shrugged. "Honestly, I think Jace is rubbing off on me."

"You know, that could be taken in a multitude of ways."

A series of images flashed, hot and loud and _wanting_ , across Clary's brain, and she turned fire-engine red. " _Isabelle_ ," she hissed out.

Izzy smiled unrepentantly. "Are you ready for the next pieces, or what?"

A stiff nod.

Next was a thicker pair of tights - black this time, and they didn't have holes for feet to go through ("They're also your socks."), followed by a pair of skin-tight pants made of supple leather that was black as pitch.

Over the soft gray shirt a sweater of black wool was pulled on, and a vest of leather went over that. A jacket made of the same leather and of the same design was shown, but that particular piece was optional.

Somehow, even with all these layers on, Clary's body didn't seem to be any bulkier and she was moving as easily as if she was wearing nothing.

"Boots now," Izzy said, ducking under the bed on the right and pulling out a pair. They were not made of leather, surprisingly, but rubber and thick cotton mixed with _adamas_ and then runed with the _fortis_ mark.

"And we're done." Isabelle sounded satisfied, looking Clary up and down with an appraising eye. "Yep," she continued on, seemingly to herself, "I did good."

"Is there a mirror around here?" Clary asked as curiosity burned within her. "I want to see just how 'good.' you did."

Isabelle gave her a dry look. "Clarissa," she said slowly, as if talking to a very small child. "You are in an infirmary. Why on earth would there be a mirror here?"

Clary gave her a _look_. "I meant the Institute as a whole, and you knew that, so don't play dumb."

"Yeah, go upstairs one level and my room is the third door on the right. Don't touch any of my stuff."

Clary rolled her eyes and mock saluted. "Ma'am, yes, Ma'am!"

 

**[:-:]**

Jace had honestly no idea why he was doing this.

Perhaps he was insane.

This idea actually seemed plausible, and also seemed to be the current opinion of his _parabatai_ , whom had not stopped muttering indistinguishable venom under his breath since they had left the Institute through a back entrance, so as not to be seen by the newest (and sort-of unwelcome) addition to their little group, Clary Fray.

The red-head was a mystery wrapped in intrigue wrapped in an attractive and beautiful body, as well as stubborn to a fault.

As much as something in Jace insisted _never take your eyes off of her; keep her by your side at all times_ , he knew that she could not come with him on this...mission, not only because she had little to no training, but because if his hunch turned out to be right, this was _way_ too close to the little spit-fire.

" _Jace_ ," Alec spat out. "Have you heard a word I've been saying?"

There was a smart-ass answer there, Jace knew this because he'd given it before, and _Alec had fallen for it every time_ (and no doubt would _again_ , if he gave it), but tonight worry and fear pounded through him - not his own, but someone else's, _for_ someone else.

Tonight, he took Clary's place, because _until he was one-hundred-per-cent sure about this, she could not know_.

So, "No," Jace answered his brother-in-all-but-blood honestly. "I have actually not been listening to you. I have not heard a word that you've been saying. Not a single one."

The look Alec sent his way was nothing short of foul and Jace truly hadn't known that his _parabatai_ 's ice-blue eyes were even _capable_ of such heat.

Tonight really was just full of surprises.

“I don’t get why you're being so… _frantic_ ,” Alec said with a suspicious side glance at him. “ _Yes_ , the Institute got an alert about a Downworlder attack on a mundie, but that doesn’t explain the cloak and dagger charade.”

“Alexander,” Jace said in a long-suffering tone, steering severe golden eyes in a glare at the Lightwood before looking the way he was going once again, “Surely, after all these years hunting together, you could show me just a _little_ faith.”

Alec’s glare didn’t lessen. “It’s something to do with _her_ , isn’t it?” he asked, and Jace did _not_ like the way Alec said _her_ , as if Clary was something poisonous and disgusting –

– Jace shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts. “In a way,” he answered, “Yes, it does have to do with her, sort of.”

“Jace, you are making very little sense,” Alec’s voice was pure exasperation. “And considering your usual state of mind - that is _saying_ something.”

“Oh, please.”

“Just tell me,” Alec demanded heatedly. “ _What_ is so important about that redheaded mundane you’ve dragged into our lives?”

Something dark and ugly reared its head within the bowels of Jace’s mind, and it took everything he had not to turn around and deck Alec. “She isn’t a mundane,” he said in a voice that was soft, soft in the way the kiss of a dagger was before it was tearing through flesh and bone and sinew, soft in the way the first shock of a bullet burying itself under skin and muscle was. “She’s one of us, _Nephilim_ – ”

“Only by blood, Jace.” Alec’s snarl was low and disgusting. “ _Only by blood_.”

Jace was controlling himself as best he could, but if Alec didn’t stop talking, _right now_ , someone was going to receive a fist to the face.

And Jace had never lost a fight to his _parabatai_.

“My intentions or reasons for coming out tonight don’t matter,” he struggled to keep his voice calm, but didn’t succeed all that well at doing so. Heat leaked out in his tone anyway, and Alec flinched.

_Good_ , said a vindictive voice inside his mind.

“The call to the Institute would have to be answered no matter what. I know Clary’s predicament makes you nervous – hell, it makes _me_ nervous, a Shadowhunter raised in the mundie world with no clue of her true heritage? – but don’t take that out on me, or her, or this poor mundane bastard we’re going to see if we can save.”

Silence fell between the two as they continued to make their way across the park proper, stealthily moving past other Shadow World denizens and avoiding barreling into Sightless mundanes, but it was far from companionable, and Jace wasn’t sure whether he should feel pissed, or sick, or scared. Alec had never treated _him_ like this before – others, yes, Jace had seen many get the ‘hostile prick’ treatment over the years, Alec was actually almost _better_ at it than Jace himself, but Jace had never been on the receiving end of it, and right now he couldn’t tell if Alec really felt that way, if this was some sort of petulant act he was putting up, or if Alec was projecting his hostile frustrations towards Clary onto him, _because Alec had shut off his end of the_ parabatai _bond_.

That was something else he had never done before, and it made Jace sick and fearful to his stomach, two things Jace Wayland did not have much experience dealing with.

“We’re close,” Alec said, breaking the silence for the first time in a long time. He was staring down at his palm, where a small object, similar to a witchlight, flickered. “My Tracer is picking up the signal from where the emergency call originated from.”

Jace nodded, consciously scanning his surroundings, not surprised at all to see that no-one was around, regardless of the fact that the last time he had been fully with it, they had been surrounded by a crush of mundanes enjoying the mild summer night, and a multitude of Downworlders enjoying the mundanes (without, of course, breaking the Accords). His well-honed and trained sense had picked up on things like this for him while he had been lost deep in thought.

Jace absolutely _loved_ physical memory.

The flickering light in Alec’s palm became a strong, unwavering beacon, illuminating the night, and both Shadowhunters tensed.

Jace was the first to relax, a savage and almost feral grin overcoming his face. “Weapons out,” he said casually as he withdrew two short seraph blades from the loops on one of his belts. Naming them ( _Cassiel_ and _Sandalphon_ ) with two of the more commonly used angels, he flipped the hilts ‘round in his palms a couple of times, finally pausing them when the pommel of the blades face outwards of his fists, and the length of the blades travelled along and covered his forearms.

He had just brought his arms up in a square stance, one across his chest and the other just below, when a small sound of distress reached his ears.

He turned, and saw Alec staring at him with wide eyes. “ _Are you fucking crazy_ ,” Alec breathed out, apparently not noticing that he had dropped an f-bomb, something he was not usually all that comfortable with.

Jace didn’t even question what Alec was talking about. He wasn’t stupid – neither of them was, and he knew Alec would notice eventually, the question hadn’t been an _if_ , but a _when_.

Jace had kind of hoped for a bit longer. He didn’t need to deal with a bitch-fit right then.

“Your blades, Jace,” Alec hissed. “They’re _clean_.”

“Well, I do take good care of them in-between every fight I use them in,” Jace said dryly. “What can I say; I’m a responsible weapons user.”

Alec let out a hiss and shut his eyes briefly. It seemed no matter what Jace did tonight, it was destined to piss him off.

“You know very well that’s not what I meant,” Alec ground out through clenched teeth.

Jace shrugged. “Can we argue about my so-called recklessness later, Alec?” his voice was smooth and velvety. “Lives could very well hang in the balance.”

Alec’s face twisted up in a silent snarl. “ _Shut up_ ,” he hissed and stashed his Tracer stone into one of his many pockets. He pulled a bundle of black and chrome pieces from his bag and with a series of abrupt, precise clicks and snaps, assembled a small but strong and completely usable crossbow. Pulling back the wire, he positioned a handful of _adamas_ bolts and locked them in.

“Nice,” Jace complimented. His eyes darkened with a dark emotion ( _battlelust_ ), and adrenalin swam in his pupils. The runes he had hastily had Alec draw on him before they left the Institute had begun to glow with a low, eager light, and his entire body was thrumming with readiness.

“Let’s do this.”

 

**[:-:]**

Clary was speechless.

She remembered, back in freshman year, her mother – a twinge of pain _shuddered_ down her spinal cord; _mother_ – had taken her shopping after an encounter with a few of the senior girls had left her confidence… _lacking_.

Clary remembered being excited for the day, she rarely ever got her mother _all to herself_ , there was usually Luke, too, and maybe it was dorky and lame to have your mother be your best friend at age fifteen, but Jocelyn was _the best_.

They had done normal shopping things – checked out the discount racks in the art stores, had a look at new colour swatches that had come in, went to a café for lunch – but then afterwards, Jocelyn had dragged Clary into a lingerie store, much to her absolute and complete shock-horror.

_I’m not buying you these things so you can show them to a boy,_ her mother had warned her, cheerful green eyes both soft and serious. _These are for_ you. _I want you to wear them, and no-one else will know they are there, but you will. And it will give you confidence_.

Clary had taken the deep purple scraps of lace without so much as blushing (due, at least in part, to her near catatonic state of shock) and after they had gotten home she had stashed them into the bottom of her drawers, swearing to god that she would always make sure she had clean under-things, so she would _never_ have to wear that skimpy monstrosity, even as a last resort.

The first time she actually _had_ worn them, had been…

…Pandemonium.

Clary swallowed as the breakdown that had been hovering over her with arms wide open and waiting for the past week threatened to swoop in.

No, she told herself firmly. Not going there. Get a grip, Clarissa.

And the lacy underwear _had_ helped, however slightly, with her confidence.

But, looking at herself dressed in the dark black of Shadowhunter gear, Clary wondered if what she had needed to give her that boost was not barely there lace, but layers of thick wool and leather. _Maybe_ what she had needed all along was what had been lying dormant in her blood.

For the first time she felt a flash of true anger, of near _hatred_ , towards her mother. Worry for Jocelyn, fear for her – that was what Clary had been so focused on since being dragged so ungracefully into the Shadow World her mother had worked so hard to keep hidden from her.

But now, other thoughts and emotions intruded; ones she knew she had been feeling before, but had been in pretty deep denial about.

What had her mother planned to do once she turned eighteen? Once she went to college? Got married, had kids? How was she going to keep Clary’s Sight bound then? And if the others were to be believed, Nephilim blood was dominant. Any kids she had would’ve been borne almost entirely from the essence of their mother. What had Jocelyn planned to do with their Sight? When Clary had started believing her children insane or schizophrenic, what would she have done?

Had her mother really thought her plan out at all?

A sound at the door pulled her out of her thoughts, and as she turned, Isabelle was standing there, smug as the cat that got both the canary _and_ the cream. “You like?” She asked.

“I…I just…” Clary spread her hands wide. “I used to think some of the things Buffy wore were ridiculous. That if I ever became a slayer or hunter I would walk around in a freaking suit of armor. But now I see why leather is so popular. It’s sensible _and_ sexy.”

Isabelle blinked a few times in rapid succession. “I did not understand about half of what you just said, but I did get the last two sentences, and I _thank_ you.” A frown suddenly marred her features and she was staring at her room critically. “You didn’t touch anything, did you?”

Clary couldn’t help but snort at the paranoia. “Trust me, Izzy – it was already this messy when I got here.”

If anything, Isabelle’s frown deepened. “No, it’s not that, it’s just – ” Her expression cleared as some sort of realization hit her, and then true, _real_ panic flooded in. “ – my _blades_.” Her voice was ragged, and she dove for the floor by her bed, reaching under with a frantic, straining hand. She yanked a wooden box with an intricately carved triglyph on the arched lid out from the space directly underneath her bedhead, and then she was flipping it open and _stiffening_ –

“Oh, that idiot,” she murmured. “That – that _boy_.” She said boy as if it was the worst insult she could think of.

Cautiously, Clary crept forward and peered into the box resting in Isabelle’s hands. It was empty, but dents in crushed green velvet showed the places were two cylindrical items, just slightly shorter than then average thirty-centimetre ruler. “What are they?” Clary questioned.

Isabelle climbed swiftly to her feet, and made her way across the room to where a cluttered dresser was shoved roughly against the wall. Once there, she rummaged through the veritable pile of crap on top one-handed (the other was still clutching hard at the wooden box, her fingers were stark white) until she found what she was looking for and made a sound of triumph.

She turned towards Clary, and in her hands she held an unactivated seraph blade. “Do you know what this is?” she asked imperiously.

Clary attempted the eyebrow thing. “A seraph blade.”

“Yes. This blade is called _Belial_ ,” she said. As the name left her lips, Belial began to glow with a soft yellow light, like within the blade lay a candle that had just been lit. Isabelle placed the box she was holding gently down onto the dresser like she was handling something nuclear. She then made her way closer to Clary and seemed to come to a moment of indecision before loosening her grip and moving it closer to the redhead, a clear invitation.

Nervously, Clary took it. With a glance from Isabelle, she studied the blade closely, taking note of how, at a distance, it looked like a spire of smooth and polished quartz, but up close, there were notches carved into it around the hilt and spiraling up to the point.

“It’s Enochian,” Isabelle said. “I couldn’t tell you what it says; I don’t think anyone short of an Iron Sister could. But the script isn’t the important part. Look at the pommel.”

_Freaking_ Enochian, she thought, inner fangirl squealing and crying tears of joy.

Curious now, Clary – very carefully – turned the seraph blade over so that she was looking at the bright silver of the pommel. A dark inscription was placed there, not like a carving, but like a brand. It showed a circle, and inside the circle vicious lines slashed through one another, creating eyes in the pattern of darkness.

It was truly creepy, and Clary tried desperately not to feel embarrassed that the closest thing she could liken it to from her old, clueless life was Pride from _Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood_.

“That’s Belial’s sigil,” Isabelle said. “Belial is an angel, you see – and all angels have their own mark. We have records of all of them except for Raziel, and a few others – Lucifer, for example. Inscribing an angel’s Mark onto a blade once it’s forged means it can never be named unto another, which is why you only get to hold a seraph blade once you’ve gone through enough training – you have to be able to match up sigil to name within seconds. Oh, it’s okay for you to hold that one,” she reassured Clary as the girl newest to the Shadow World looked alarmed and tried to push the blade back onto Isabelle. “Just please don’t swing it around; because I’ve made it active, and therefore safe, for you to hold, doesn’t mean you know how to use it. It isn’t a kitchen knife.”

“Anyway,” Isabelle continued, “Most blades are made with an angel already chosen for them. But sometimes, at a special request, the Sisters will make a ‘clean’ weapon. A weapon allied with Raziel, but not linked to any angel. They can be handy in a fight – each angel brings a certain level of power to an attack, and some work against certain demons better than others – but there is always a risk involved. Now that I’ve invoked Belial, the blade will remain active until I tell him he is free to go.” As these words fell from her lips, the light coming from Belial dulled, and the knife suddenly weighed a _ton_.

Clary dropped the blade with a yelp, and without so much as blinking, Izzy scooped it up from midair and lobbed it onto her bed. “A clean blade, however,” she said as she moved to the door and gestured for Clary to head out after her, “Will only last for a certain amount of time. And you can invoke _any_ angel onto it, even if you don’t know their sigil. You need special permission from the Clave to so much as _look_ at one.”

“Where have yours gone?” Clary asked as she jogged to keep up with Isabelle. They were heading into a part of the Institute she wasn’t familiar with – not that she was familiar with any of it just yet, but she was near one-hundred-percent certain she had never been in this part before – the arches of the pillars that led up to the wall were thinner and lower than they were throughout the rest of the Institute, and the walls were made of marble with veins that ran through so thick they looked like cracks in the wall.

“Jace,” Isabelle sighed, both accusation and exasperated explanation.

Panic reared in Clary’s mind at the thought of the golden Shadowhunter. “Why would Jace take your blades?”

“Because he doesn’t have his own,” Isabelle answered as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “But he doesn’t have the training to use them either,” she muttered as they entered a grand, open space – a room that seemed to be made entirely of twisting _adamas_ crystal. “He is such an _idiot_.”

Clary heard the words, but was too busy gaping at the room around her to focus on them for too long. “Oh, _wow_ ,” she breathed.

The room wasn’t _made_ of _adamas_ , she saw – _fleur-de-lis_ patterned wallpaper was visible under the opaque crystal, and the heavy golden gilt of framed paintings. Runes were everywhere, under the crystal, on it, overlapping – some Clary recognized from her days spent in the Institute and from questioning Jace and Isabelle (never Alec), but most were completely unfamiliar, and far too complicated for her to comprehend the meaning behind them. They shone with all colours, purple and blue and yellow and white and pink, and the light fractured against the curling and spiking _adamas_ that coated the high walls and domed roof of the open room, flickering like the northern lights all over Clary’s line of vision.

“It’s _beautiful_ ,” she murmured.

“And deadly.” Isabelle’s voice was grim. “It’s an execution chamber, Clary, similar to what Nazis used in concentration camps. Everything in here is designed to harm and kill – Downworlders, that is. Throw one in here and lock the door, and you’ve got yourself a dead body to expose of.”

Clary swallowed. “That’s _horrible_.”

“But efficient. And it’s only used on the really _horrible_ Downworlders – the murderers and…others. If you get into a fight with a Downworlder, you usually end up killing them quickly and painlessly, before they get a chance to kill you.”

Isabelle moved further into the room, heading towards the back. “Of course that also makes it the perfect hiding place,” she said. “Neither Downworlders or demons would willingly go in, even for one of the Mortal Instruments, because they’d never get out again – not alive, at least. Aha!” She pointed to an alcove situated in between two tall spires of _adamas_ that were milky white.

In the alcove was a pile of coal.

Clary sent Isabelle a _what even_ look, but the Shadowhunter girl seemed oblivious. She scooped up one of the coal pieces, and then stood straight. “There should be a rune here somewhere,” she murmured. “A swooping outer line, and then a pentacle scattered across. A thinner line cuts across the middle horizontally as balance.”

As Isabelle described the rune, dark lines slashed across the canvas of her mind with frightening speed and vividness. A flare of heat spiked up behind the skin of her forehead (behind her ‘third eye’) and following her – instincts, intuition – she turned to face two o’clock, and her fingers pointed for her, following the path her mind had set out. “There,” she said. Her voice was raspy and she was panting like she had just run a marathon.

Isabelle, who had been peering closely at a small slope of _adamas_ that was covered with a mass of runes that were near unrecognizable due to the overlap, looked up. “Yes,” she said in astonishment. “That is definitely the _faind_ rune.”

_Faind_. The word burst across Clary’s mind in an explosion of colour and breathless power, and suddenly she knew what Isabelle was doing.

“That coal piece,” she said. “It’s actually a piece of _adamas_ , from the heart of the Iron Sister’s forge. If you activate it using the _faind_ rune and focus on Jace, it’ll lead you to him.”

Isabelle looked nothing short of astonished, as if she had just been bludgeoned from behind. “How on earth did you – never mind,” she shook her head. “We’ll worry about that later. For now, we have to find Jace before he gets both himself and Alec _killed_. I want to save that illustrious pleasure for _myself_.”

 

**[:-:]**

Jace grunted as he slid down a small but steep incline on the side of a hill. It led into a dark and overgrown place that made Jace wonder what, exactly, the Downworlder had done to lure the mundane out here, because there was no blood or traces of a struggle leading up to this point, and there was no way through the thick undergrowth on the other side, not unless the Downworlder let the mundane be torn to pieces by the branches and thorns.

Then again, Jace wouldn’t put it pass them.

A faint thrum that reverberated from his _parabatai_ Mark let Jace know that Alec was nearby and on high – ground, that is, or a tree, the better to aim from. Fighting from the sidelines was definitely more Alec’s thing than getting up close and personal, which was why they made such a great team – ranged attack and melee combat, the perfect deadly combination. And with Alec watching his back, Jace could afford to focus on his more immediate surroundings.

He did, and stiffened at what he picked up.

Blood. He could smell blood, and a lot of it, the copper scent so thick on the air that he could feel it wet and tepid against his tongue, like it had evaporated and he was now breathing it in.

Well that was a lovely mental image. Nice and macabre.

He shifted his body from a fully erect battle stance to what Isabelle called ‘an awkward frog crouch.’ It was ugly, Jace admitted, but it was also incredibly efficient and used a lot less energy than that stupid ‘leap and glide’ thing that she did.

The scent of copper seemed to be coming from downwind, which concerned Jace slightly; if the wind was blowing it away from him, how much must’ve been spilled for the scent to still be so strong?

His _parabatai_ Mark buzzed once again, and no words came into his mind; a message from Alec – that would be ridiculous, _that was not how it worked_. He just got a sense that he should freeze for a second – probably while Alec adjusted his vantage point.

Jace was glad that Alec had gotten over his hissy fit from earlier, or at least shoved it deep, _deep_ down inside. They needed to be completely in sync with one another while on a hunt.

His ears picked up a sound; low moans and hitched breaths were coming from somewhere directly in front of him.

For a moment he considered a vampire and their drugging bite; the endorphins released could certainly bring out a reaction of a…pleasurable nature, but scrapped that almost immediately.

The sounds he was hearing weren’t the sounds of someone in the throes of pleasure. They were pained, they were weak, and they were fear filled.

Over the very human sounds of terror and agony, a low growling was apparent, and a lush, _wet_ tearing that was without fail followed up by a strangled yelp that made Jace both angry and disgusted.

_Werewolf,_ he thought, glad for the silver hilts on Isabelle’s blades.

An approving shock of electricity arced along his _parabatai_ Mark, and he lunged forward through the undergrowth, bowling straight as an arrow towards the grey wolf that was hunched over a slight mundane boy, the mangled flesh that was left of his calf in-between the jaws of his werewolf attacker.

Jace saw red. The wolf was more aware of its surroundings then its single-minded focus towards his prey suggested, and leapt just shy of his attack, feinting to the left and howling a challenge at the Shadowhunter.

Eyes of gold met eyes of the same, gazes clashing in a storm of bloodlust – one craving mindless agony and death, the other righteous justice.

Jace responded to the challenge with a howl of his own, and while his was definitely more human than animal, the werewolf still recognized it for what it was; clear human intelligence shone within the depths of the wolf’s eyes, and it just made Jace angrier – it wasn’t even a _rabid_ , let alone a newly Turned _cub_ , it was in full control of all of its higher reasoning.

His eyes spared a momentary glance for the mundane boy lying in a congealing pool of his own blood, and a sickening sense of horror overtook him as recognition did the same.

He knew this boy.

Never had being right brought him less pleasure.

 

**[‘::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::’]**

 

_< <rewind<<   
_[Pandemonium]

 

Pandemonium lived up to its name, and then some. The line to enter the club ran for what seemed like an endless number of miles, and the people loitering around, waiting for their turn to enter the club, were... _eclectic,_ to say the very least.

"This is great," Simon said in a tone that exuded the maximum amount of sarcasm per word. "Really. Lots of fun, and stuff."

Clary rolled her eyes. "It's not like I _made_ you come," she told him exasperatedly. "You _volunteered_."

" _Lies_ ," he responded, dramatically pointing a finger at her as they moved further up the line, closer to the door. "You, Clarissa Fray, are a _lying liar_ who _lies_."

The redhead snorted inelegantly. “And you are definitely one to talk – ”

She broke off, whirling around as she saw a flicker of _something_ out of the corner of her eye. Light that was more than the club, darkness that was more than the night, and an aching familiarity that felt as distant and electric as lightning arcing down from the sky.

Her green eyes squinted as she peered into the darkness, searching hard for whatever had caught her attention.

“What?” Simon’s voice was placed somewhere between concerned and curious. “Clary, what is it?”

Clary looked at her brunet friend appraisingly. They were at completely opposite ends of the height spectrum, Clary being a regular Tinkerbell, and Simon being…well, a regular teenage boy (re: beansprout). He could see over this crowd of people far better than her, though his eyesight was total crap, even _with_ his glasses, which hadn’t really been made for anything other than classwork.

“Can you see anything?” she asked. “Over there? Like a person glowing?”

The look she got given back was the very definition of droll. “Please tell me this isn’t another Edward Cullen sighting.”

Clary sighed, rolled her eyes, and once again moved closer to the club’s entrance. “I just thought that I saw…a really cool LARPer costume.”

Now Simon was the one rolling his eyes. “That is disgusting. Truly. At a convention, now that is one thing; but at a nightclub? I repeat, _disgusting_.”

“For someone who claims to accept all, you are filled with a surprising amount of elitist snark,” Clary commented lightly, leaning against the cool and chipped brick outer wall of Pandemonium, simply shuffling along it and the pathway as the line slowly but inexorably grew shorter.

“Ah, but the best kind of elitist snark,” Simon informed her. “I am an elitist _nerd_.”

He looked so serious, so deathly solemn, that when she saw that expression with his unruly brown curls, his biro-ink covered arms and his ‘MADE IN BROOKLYN’ shirt, that she couldn’t help but burst into peals of deep, full-on belly laughter.

To his credit, Simon didn’t seem offended by this at all, but rather pleased, as if making her laugh had been his goal all along.

In fact, Clary was so busy wiping tears brought on by hilarity out of her eyes, that she didn’t notice the blue haired guy in front of them enter the club until the bouncer told them to ‘move their scrawny asses inside’ or ‘get the fuck out of my line.’

And she didn’t notice the three striking characters that stealthily slunk their way in just after them.

 

**[:-:]**

Isabelle allowed her dark eyes to flicker, momentarily, away from the focus of tonight’s hunt, as she looked for a place to lure the hellion into.

This was not her first time at Pandemonium. It was well-known in the Shadow World as a veritable hot-spot for all kinds of Downworlder activity, but it wasn’t against the law or the Accords to go dancing, not even in a club filled to the brim with mundies. The first time she had darkened the dancefloor with her mostly unwelcome Nephilim presence, she had been fifteen – she couldn’t remember now what had driven her to such anger that she felt reveling with the so called ‘scum’ of the Shadow World was an appropriate response, but she remembered having _fun_.

The club had changed, but only slightly – it had only been two years, approximately, since then.

The roof was higher than she remembered, the paneling that had covered it stripped down to the rafters, giving the club an industrial rave feel. Gossamer lengths of gauzy material twisted around the exposed roof beams and fell down to the ground, pooling in frayed piles on the floor – a safety hazard, if Isabelle had ever seen one. The entire place was filled with equal parts strobe and smoke, and she nearly took a careless fist to the face several times, only her Shadowhunter reflexes saving her from an awkward bruise.

She was half convinced that they didn’t need the glamours they had so painstakingly applied to remain unseen, what with the protective screen the smoke and mundanes provided, but this was more than just a rogue Downworlder they were hunting – this was a _demon_.

And _there_ the blue-haired bastard was – wow, demons were either always deviant or getting with modern times, _finally_ , if _one more_ demon refused to take her seriously as an opponent because she was _female_ , hell dimensions were going to be _eradicated_ – staring (moodily? Hungrily? Hard to tell, with demons) at the dancing, writhing masses, nose wrinkled in a way that said he smelt something bad, something _rotten_ , and he liked it.

Keeping one cautious eye on the hellspawn, she racked her brains once more for a secluded place to kill him in.

A door marked _private_ caught her eye, and a coy smile came to life on her lips. Turning to face the demon, she sashayed in his direction slowly, moving to the beat of the clubs music but to her own rhythm.

She felt his eyes on her, and allowed them to lock gazes. His eyes dropped lower, and Isabelle ran her tongue slowly over her lips, before freezing in the middle of the floor.

She knew what she looked like, hair slightly static and makeup no doubt smudged, sweat glistening all over her body, just enough for the white material of her dress to cling to damp skin – like more than a temptress, a modern day Aphrodite come to dance until dawn.

(Or until death. Take your pick, but for the demon they would undoubtedly mean the same thing.)

One last, lingering stare and Isabelle was gone, gliding smoothly to the place she had picked just before, trusting Jace and Alec to be waiting for her there, knowing they had more than likely picked up on her signal and knew where to go.

A flare of heat against her chest – her ruby red Sensor necklace – and her smile grew into something more, something _real_.

Looked like all guys, no matter the dimension they came from, had two brains, but thought with only one.

He was following her.

 

**[:-:]**

School dances had taught Clary many things over the course of her short, near-on-seventeen years – don’t drink the punch, don’t drink the water, don’t use the cups, don’t use the toilet, don’t dance if no-one else is, don’t request music that’s over five years old until past midnight because that is when you can start being lame, don’t sing the words to the songs until after midnight because, again, _lame_ – but perhaps the most useful thing she had picked up was that Simon was probably the best, most reliable guy to go anywhere with, because when you nearly collapse due to what you think is dehydration, he will drag you off of (out of) the dancefloor (which really closely resembles a mosh pit) and place you in a chair far away from the other clubbers, right against the wall so you’re out of the smoke, too.

And he won’t even say _I told you so_ , or _this was your great idea_ , or even look at you accusingly, which is good, because by then you’re already thinking all those things yourself.

“I’ll go get you some water.” His brown eyes seemed darker than usual, and Clary couldn’t tell if that was the lighting of the club or just concern. “Or do you want a Coke or something else with sugar in it? Maybe you’re not dehydrated. Maybe it’s your blood sugar.”

“There is nothing wrong with my blood sugar, you big mother hen.”

“You can’t know that for certain. I’ll get you a Coke _and_ water.”

Clary groaned and slumped further into the hard, cold metal of the chair and let her head rest back against the wall. “My hero,” she muttered.

Simon grinned. “I’d say in shining armor, but I’m not, and _you’re_ the liar here, Miss Clarissa Fray.”

“Also, shining armor implies knighthood,” Clary reminded him through squinted eyes. “And you are _way_ too scrawny for that to _ever_ be a possibility.”

Simon made a disgruntled noise. “ _Thanks_ ,” he said. “I’ll be sure to start getting buff straight away, at milady’s pleasure.”

Clary raised one hand and half-heartedly swatted him away. “Brat,” she said. “I like you scrawny. Now go and get us some drinks.”

Simon stood up from his crouched position by her chair and bowed – that infuriating grin still on his face.

He disappeared into the crowd, heading towards the bar, before Clary could say anything.

Left alone for a minute (sadly not with her thoughts, but with the incessant thumping of club music) Clary sighed, letting her eyes linger shut for just a second to long for it to be considered blinking, trying not to feel the pounding pain that had taken residence in her head – but only since entering the club.

If just fifteen minutes of music made her feel this bad, she was definitely not cut out for the clubbing scene.

Her eyes still closed, she relaxed even further into the hard, unforgiving metal of her chair and before she knew it, she was drifting off.

_Wings. Wings and glass and blood, feathers lying broken and bent amongst the coloured shards of a shattered church window. In the center of the carnage, a golden man lay, his body, like the feathers; broken, bent, blood-soaked._

_Clary’s breath caught in her throat and fear, black and bubbling and caustic rose within her like a great wave, crashing down with such a force –_

_– that in your grave I lie._

_The line was whispered in tones of honey and smoke, delivered in the way a monologue or soliloquy was; words that belong to someone else recited with great passion._

_It struck Clary as familiar. She knew those words, and something about them gave her strength, the strength she needed to stand and once again make her way towards the limp body in the center of the broken down church._

_Her breathing was loud in the otherwise pristine silence of the once holy ground, and looking around at the sigils scattered in gold around the building, Clary knew it had once been grand._

_She was close enough to touch the fallen man now, the man of gold, and she reached out to do so, her heart beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings with fear and pain and love._

_She might not know who he was, but her body did._

_Her hand fell upon his shoulder, and it was still warm, but stiff in a way that belied life._

_A sob broke out of the dry and constructive prison that was her throat, and the telltale burn of tears ate away at her eyes like acid._

_All she had to do was exert a little bit of pressure, roll him over and see his face –_

_“Stop.”_

_The voice was familiar, and Clary turned to face Simon, tears tracing lines of grief down her face as she remained crouching by the unknown man._

_“Who is he?” she whispered. “How do I know him? Why – ”_

_The words_ why do I love him? _Were on her tongue, but she swallowed them down, and they were a bitter, yet tasteless, medicine._

_Simon did not answer her, simply stood at the threshold of the desecrated church and watched her impassively._

_A shiver of cold foreboding ran down Clary’s spine as she focused more closely on him and noticed small things – changes – which she hadn’t at first glance._

_No glasses. Not as scrawny. Hair cut shorter._

_The gaze of a predator._

_She swallowed. This wasn’t her Simon, her geeky best friend who was an elitist nerd full of snark._

_“It would be best for all involved if you did not fall for him,” Not-Simon murmured. “He will bring you nothing but misery.” Not-Simon tilted his head. “He will bring us both nothing but pain and loss.”_

Clary jolted up, immediately awake and aware as she slammed stomach first into the table.

“Ouch,” she groaned as she pulled out her vibrating phone, which she figured is what had woken her up.

A text message from Simon greeted her.

_line was longer than I thought entertain me._

She shuddered for some reason, a deep seated unease taking root and spreading venomous tendrils inside her. Something about Simon made her uneasy, restless.

She shook nonsense thoughts out of her head and instantly began to play ‘Random Anime Nerd Trivia’ with him via stilted text message.

Clary was just about to hazard a guess at the last question Simon had sent her – she was thinking the answer was Lia from _Le Chevalier D’Eon_ – when the pounding in her head kicked it up a notch, less of a club induced headache, more of a…

…heartbeat. It wasn’t _just_ a pounding she was hearing, but the wet sounds of blood being pumped through ventricles and arteries.

_What…the hell?_

Following the sound of the pulse as if she could see the delicate map of veins that the blood she could hear pumping through leading her to the owner of the heartbeat, she swiveled in her seat and her eyes were drawn like a compass to true north, towards the blue-haired guy that had been in front of Simon and herself in the entrance line.

His gaze was unwaveringly focused on a dark beauty in a sheer white dress, a modern twist on the sort of robe Clary would sketch when she drew Greek nymphs and goddesses. Gaps and slits in the material showed suggestions of skin every time the girl moved, but at the same time covered enough to be considered demure.

It was nothing short of architectural genius, that dress.

Clary’s eyes tracked their path into what she surmised to be a storage room, and a hot blush came to life on her face as her mind quite happily supplied vivid mental images involving what Blue Hair and Goddess Girl were more than likely going to do – her own mind always seemed to work against her and _enjoy_ it, like some twisted part of her enjoyed her own mortification.

She made to turn away and avert her eyes from the couple that so obviously wanted privacy, when a flash of silver in the corner of her eye made her freeze.

_Is that..._

It was.

A knife. A large, flat knife, shaped like a butcher's meat cleaver but tapering to a thin and sharp point midway through the shining blades length.

It was a weapon made for murder.

Clary swallowed as her eyes flickered back up to the blue-haired boys face, and saw that predatory gaze of his in a new and horrible light.

A buzzing vibration in her hands brought her out of her frozen stupor, some of the ice around her brain fracturing as she started and looked down at her phone screen - Simon had evidently decided she didn't know the answer since she was taking so long to reply and given her a bone - she had been right, it _was_ Lia -

She shook her head to clear her thoughts and sharpen her focus once more.

That girl had no idea about that knife - Clary was sure of it, what sane person would willingly enter a small space out of the eyes of the crowd with an armed guy? Especially one with such a hungry gaze?

The police would be too far away. Clary had no idea how long it would take to get security, but probably longer than the girl had once Blue Hair got his hands on her.

That left it up to Clary.

She shot off a text to Simon about what was going on - she wasn't sure of the exact wording as she ran on autopilot, but she was fairly certain she told him to get security, ASAP.

Then, placing her cell down on the table and ignoring both her pounding headache and the crowd of people in her way, she stood up, chair scraping behind her, and ran for the storage room.

 

_||pause||_

_.tbc._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

****


End file.
